w 
’S MEAL 1EW-Y0EEEE. 
ra 
OY. 7. 
;a4i?s’ fifprtmjnt. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TWILIGHT VISIONS. 
How I love the hour of twilight, 
Twilight dusky, dim and grey, 
When the night with moon and starlight, 
Gently clasps the hand of day. 
As I sit here in the silence, 
With the shadows ’round me felling; 
From a lnnd far, far behind me, 
Memory's voice is sweetly calling. 
And she gives unto my glad sight 
One I loved when free and gay; 
Oh ! she is forever faithful, 
Bringing bask the “ passed away.” 
And the hand whose clasp I loved best 
Takes mine ns in olden time, 
And the. eyes, just as they used to, 
Earnestly gaze into mine. 
Halcyon days and blessed moments, 
Thrilling all my sad heart through. 
Flit before my dreamy vision, 
And are gone like morning dew. 
Now 1 see a narrow coffin 
Let down In a narrow cave, 
And they heap the sod above it, 
And earth numbers one more grave. 
With the white face tune d toward heaven, 
And the breathless bosom pressed 
By the cold hands Dentil has folded. 
Sleeping ones arc laid to rest. 
Now the shades are deepening fester. 
Night's great banuer is unfur led, 
And the stars took from their station — 
Guardians of the upper world. 
When 1 cross Death’s darkling river, 
When my Father's voice shall call, 
May the golden life-cords sever 
When the twilight shadows fall. 
Canandaigua, Mich., 1803 . Maude. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“WHY IS IT?” 
A youthful writer in a late Rurai, com¬ 
plains that her life,—as she had mapped it out,— 
has been thwarted; and that she, with a gifted 
intellect, and high aspirations for a brilliant 
career as scholar and author, is, against her will, 
lied down to the necessity of attending to house¬ 
hold cares, and nursing an invalid mother. 
While bemoaning her fair prospects, so hope¬ 
lessly nipped in the bud, site asks. “ Why is it?” 
We answer, not as a philosopher alone, but as 
a Christian,—because God requires it of her. 
The future life may perhaps reveal its wisdom 
and necessity to her spirit made purer and 
stronger for a higher soul life by-and-by, if she 
cheerfully and lovingly meet the task appointed 
her now. The gifted daughter, who quietly puts 
down all her high ambitions for pre-eminence 
among her peers in intellect, and stifles her 
longings for companionship in spirit with na¬ 
tures of relined taste, rich in geniuR and knowl¬ 
edge; and cheerfully devotes herself with loving 
patience to the care of home and an invalid 
mol her for years, is indeed a heroine; albeit she 
doth not so regard herself. She simply feels that 
Gon requires it of her, and unquestioningly 
takes up the burden of life as appointed by One 
too wise too err. 
Nor does her heart respond less heartily than 
her intellect to this high duty. Filial affection 
prompts the true daughter to do for a sick 
mother, as near as possible, all that mother has 
doue, or would do, l'or her. Nor is there a 
richer jewel to grace the brow of womanhood 
than such a ministry of filial love! And there is 
none that wins a richer meed of blessings from 
the Father above. ’We are disposed to throw the 
mantle of charity over Miss Ida, and believe she 
is not so selfishly unfilial as the spirit of her 
article would indicate. It may be she performs 
these sacred home duties faithfully, and with the 
loving alacrity that invests them with so charm¬ 
ing a grace and beauty; but we should judge 
rather that it was with grudging bitterness. 
lias she not sacrideed her life’s highest capa¬ 
bilities by starting on a false basis, constructed 
out of romantic dreams of ambition, iu which 
the essential condition of “ What wilt Thou, 0 
Gon?" did not enter? Then, with the philo¬ 
sophical infidelity of the day, she attributes her 
failure to (he unjust decrees of fate. 
We do not write as a critic, and pass over 
whatever else challenges remark. If we have 
been too severe in our strictures, it is because 
we fear lest the young daughters who read the 
Rural all over the land, and are given more or 
less to romantic vision - of '* heroes and heroines,” 
and, the might be, should imbibe wrong ideas of 
life and duty from the heedless perusal of the 
article before us; and we appeal from the au¬ 
thoress to herself for pardon. f. a. d. 
Buffalo, N. Y., 1663. 
Written for lloore's Rural New-Yorker. 
FALLEN LEAVES. 
Only one of the countless leaves that are 
whirled by the autumn wind —only one little, 
colored, dried leaf,—yet my heart feels a love 
for this forsaken relic of the beautiful summer¬ 
time, and 1 hold it almost reverently while I 
remember how one little grave will be covered 
with leaves from the over-hanging boughs. Ah, 
little Nellie! my bright, beautiful little one, 
thou art fallen as a leaf prematurely sealed by 
the frost 
I remember one day in the summer-time, I 
twined the young green leaves around your 
brow — your baby brow,—and thought how one 
day it might be wreathed with laurel, but. to-day 
a head-stone marks the spot where my darling 
lies.— a marble slab with only this, “Buried 
Hopes,” graven upon it. and I am like this faded 
leaf,— my summer is gone. 
Fallen leaves!—they are falling -;falling still 
As I walk among them each one seems to me an 
emblem of some hope, some joy; for all along 
the path-way of my life the over-banging boughs 
are clustered close with freshness and beauty — 
~ with leaves upon which was written a prophecy 
of future good,— an omen of bliss — the name of 
one I loved. Over them has the wind of autumn 
passed, and the frost has touched their beauty— 
they have faded, and are falling. Already my 
path is strewn with the poor dead things, and 
still they are falling — yet upon my soul is writ¬ 
ten “ Immortal and I know, above the stars, 
angels shall bind about my brow' a crown en¬ 
twined of these same faded leaves,—glorified to 
a brightness above the sun. 
Hillsdale, Mich., 1863. Emji.t Lkwis. 
DOMESTIC INFELICITIES. 
A lady who has ever lived in New York city 
or vicinity, and been obliged to depend on the 
intelligence offices for servants, wiil appreciate 
the following narration:—It is well known that 
the servants of the present day have learned to 
value luxury and ease in the kitchen, as much as 
the mistress in the parlor, and have carried their 
ideas beyond the bounds of propriety in many 
cases, expecting the kitchen to be tilled with ma- 
chines tor saving labor, which they are to propel, 
by the smallest possible amount of an outlay of 
strength on their part. An interview with one 
of these operatives, the particulars of which are 
strictly reliable, will illustrate my remark. 
A lady from Fiatbush, L. I., was visiting a 
friend of mine in A-, Massachusetts, aud il 
chanced the conversation one day turned upon 
the trials of housekeeping—not the least of which 
is the care of the servants. 
She said that she once, not long since, engaged 
a cook in New York, and, in due time, the dam¬ 
sel presented herself with her newspaper parcel, 
containing her wardrobe, for the week of trial. 
Before proceeding to lay off her bonnet, she 
turned to the lady and said. “ Now, Miss Brad¬ 
ford, 1 always like to have a good old fashioned 
talk with the lady 1 lives with, before 1 begins. 
1 am awful tempered, but I’m dreadful forgiving. 
Have you Hecker’s flour, Beebe's range—hot 
and cold water, stationary tubs, oil-cloth on the 
floor, and dumb waiter?” Then follows her self- 
planned programme for the week. 
“Monday I washes. I’se to be let alone tha 
day. Tuesday I irons. Nobody’s to come near 
me that day. Wednesday I bakes. I’se to be let 
alone that day. Thursday I picks up the house. 
Nobody’s to Come near me that day. Friday I 
goes to (lie city. Nobody’s to come near me that 
day. Saturday I bakes, and Saturday afternoon 
my beau comes to see me. Nobody's to come 
near me that day. Sunday 1 has to myself!" 
Rising, she ask for a lock into her sub-parlor. 
One hasty glance— 
“ No oil cloth on the kitchen floor 1 I can’t 
work here.” 
“You had better go,” said Mrs. B., “for you 
can’t work here.” And she closed the door on 
the indignant female with a hearty feeling of 
relief. 
It is hign time there was a radical change in the 
management of servants, lor tliey demand so 
much, and expect to render so small an equiva¬ 
lent in service. As si range truths as these could 
be told every day, for almost every housekeeper 
has some bitter experiences to pass through. The 
first question a servant asks now-a-days, is, not 
“What can 1 do for you. ma’am?” but “What 
privileges do you git e ma’am?” And if company 
be not allowed every evening when the dumsel 
is not herself out—if the whole Sabbath be not 
granted for her especial perquisite — if the 
“friends ” may not be invited to a party occa¬ 
sionally—if (fee access be not granted to store- 
closet aud pantry, tea canister aud Hour barrel, 
besides soapbox {empty, guile frequently)— a lady 
is voted menu, and unw orthy of being served. 5 
The matter rests in the hands of the ladies 
themselves to effect a change iu this matter. Let 
them pay a little more attention personally to 
their domestic arrangements, and there will soon 
be less cause of complaint about waste, untidi¬ 
ness and imprudence, and many a temper will 
be saved to happier households. 
THE STYLE. 
Tub New York Sunday Times, speaking of 
the gay cloaks whien now prevail to such an 
alaimiug extent in that city, says: 
It is not too much to say that the pretty peri¬ 
patetics of Broadway present a dazzling specta¬ 
cle. Blight yellow cloaks with scarlet hoods, 
scarlet cloaks with yellow hoods, blue cloaks 
with white hoods, purple cloaks with orange 
hoods, anrl striped and checkered cloaks with 
crimson hoods, moving continually in prismatic 
procession through that great exhibition thor¬ 
oughfare, threaten with “color blindness” the 
man ol' weak vision who ventures into the flare. 
It is not “ a sight for sore eyes,” but is calculated, 
like the glare of an Egypiion desert, to produce 
ophthalmia and inflammation of the. optic nerve, 8 
The saffron, bright red, green, azure, and white c 
and cream-colored feathers, wherewith the ladies c 
in conflagration decorate their Cvandiere hats— 1 
planting the flaming tufts, like torches, in the 1 
fore fronts of the same—add much to their incen¬ 
diary auto da fe -ish aspect, and deepen the 8 
unpleasant impression produced upon feeble 
retiuas by the blaze of their garments. Il really 
seems as if New York beauty and fashion had 11 
determined to substitute for the fancy balls that 1 
were so much in rogue last winter a general c 
street masquerade. One would never surmise 0 
that a tremendous war was sweeping olT by 8 
thousands and tens of thousands the very flower ’’ 
of our population, were it not that the splendors 1 
of this gorgeous show are blotted at 6hort inter- 1 
vals by groups and single wayfarers swathed in 1: 
crape—the widowed wives and sonless mothers, r 
the brotherless sisters, the orphaned daughters, r 
made desolate by the sword. t: 
§Wm Wisullttvi 
Written for Moore's Rnral New-Yorker. 
THE MTJSIC OF RAINY DAYS. 
Dear Rural:— Nearly all the day long have 
the rain-drops been steadily beating their soft, 
dreamy tattoo upon the window pane and leaf, 
floweret and shrub, and I’ve been thinking bo- 
much music there is even in the rainy days of 
life. I do not wonder that people shut in be¬ 
tween city walls should pronounce rainy days 
dreary, but out in the country the epithet seems 
misapplied. Why, there's more music in a rainy 
day than ever was crow ded into an oratorio or 
an opera. From every tree the leaves pour forth 
their tine old choruses, overflowing with rich bar- 
monies; from every flower and shrub rises an 
accompaniment of harp-like sweetness, and upon 
roof and window-pane is played a cradle song, 
so soothing, bo charmingly sweet, that we almost 
lose ourselves in the witchery of dreamland. 
How pleasant, when theraiu murmurs on the 
lattice, to yield ourselves to the narcotic influ¬ 
ence surrounding us, close our eyes to outward 
objects, and view the scenes that memory paints 
for us with her magic pencil. How many faces 
we see that have ceased to be known here upon 
earth; how many voices reach our ear that will 
never again greet us until we go over the river. 
IIow many hands do we clasp that are now beck¬ 
oning to us from the “ Evergreen Hills;*' how 
many friendships are revived that were severed 
“when the silver cord was loosed, and the gold¬ 
en bowl was broken!” Oh, those old friendships! 
IIow they still link our hearts to the dear, dim 
days when they were as yet unperverted by con- j 
tact with the busy, selfish world. And these 
links will remain, even as they ever have done. 
The dust of the present may oftentimes obscure 
them, but there will be periods whon w« shall 
feel them druwing us hack toward the past, and 
doing us good. 
But while I have been ruminating, dear Ru¬ 
ral, the music without has been increasing in 
power. The rain now comes in strong gust* 
against my window, and the tree-tops wave to 
and fro, yet il is music still. The chorus from 
the trees is now in the midst ol an agitato, dolo¬ 
rosa, crescendo movement; while the cradle¬ 
song from roof aud window pane haR modulated 
into a wild, wierd strain, that seems very like 
that of a witch’s dance- And thus we have the 
variety and expression of our rainy-day music. 
Will you not confess it to be enjoyable V 
In my portfolio I have found some verses that 
were written on a day like Ibis, some time since, 
aud as they seem so apropos, will copy Borne of 
them as the close of this rambling letter. They 
are called 
A Bit N - DREAM. 
***** 
Soft and gentle is the music, 
As upon the window pane 
Comes the low and gentle tapping 
Of the softly driving rain. 
On the hroad, green leaves of maple 
That so near my window cling, 
Myriad little drops are striving 
Airy little tones to sing! 
And their soft, Aiolean music, 
Charms me in uone other can, 
Charms me ns it did in boyhood— 
Charms me hack there from a man ! 
Now the soft and dreamy murmurs 
Wake bright fancies in my brain; 
Fancies bright as youth, and pleasant 
As the sky before the rain. 
► 
Once again, as when in boyhood, 
In the cosy chamber bed, 
Do I feel a sacred thrilling— 
Mother’s hand is on my head ! 
And as now I hear the rain drops— 
Fancy works on memory's woof— 
Sing they to me, as of olden 
Sang they on the cottage roof! 
And as by the dreamy murmurs 
These bright fancies come and go, 
Childhood's years seem doubly precious, 
Long l for my boyhood so i 
Is the boyhood gone forever ? 
Will the mother cotne no more ? 
Must Life's lmrquc keep onward sailing 
’Till it reach the other shore 9 
Are the child-years past recalling, 
Can wc ne'er again go back ? 
Must the years keep onward rolling, 
Does Time have uo backward track ? 
Soothing sweetly, still the rain-drops 
Murmur on the window pane; 
List I to their gentle hushing, 
Close my eyes to dream again! 
Penfield, N. Y., 1863. Gulielmusi. 
THE RHYTHM OF PROSE. 
Tue surest way to improve one’s condition is 
to improve one’s self. 
In every good pro9e writer there will be found 
a certain harmony of sentence, which cannot be 
displaced without injury to his meaning. His 
own ear has accustomed itself to regular meas¬ 
urements of time to which his thoughts learn 
mechanically to regulate their march. And in 
prose, as in verse, it is the pause, be it long or 
short, which the mind is compelled to make, in 
order to accommodate its utterance to the ear, 
that serves to the completer formation of the 
ideas conveyed; for words, like waters, would 
run off to their own waste, were it not for the 
checks that compress them, Water-pipes can 
only convey them stream so long as they re¬ 
sist its pressure, aud every skilled workman 
knows that he cannot expect them to last, unless 
he smooth, with care, the material with which 
they are composed. For reasons of ifs own, prose 
has, therefore, a rhythm of its own. But by 
rhythm is not necessarily meant the monotonous 
rise aud fall of balanced periods, nor amplifica¬ 
tion of needless epithets, in order to close the ca¬ 
dence with a Johnsonian chime. Every style 
has its appropriate music; but without a rnusie 
of some kind it is not style—it is scribbling. 
SOMETHING BESIDE MONEY-MAKING. 
But,— let us say it plainly,—it will not hurt 
- our people to be taught that there are other 
things to be cared for besides money-making and 
money-spending; that the time has come when 
manhood must assert itself by brave deeds and 
s noble thoughts; when womanhood must assume 
it* most sacred office, “to warn, to comfort,” 
and, if need be, “to command” those whose 
services their country calls for. This Northern 
i section of the land has become a great varicty- 
- shop, of which the Atlantic cities are the long- 
g extended counter. We have grown rich for 
s what? To put gilt bands on coachmen’s hats? 
7 To sweep the foul sidewalks with the heaviest 
r silks that the toiling artisans of France can 
i send ur? To look through plate-glass windows, 
. and the pity the brown soldiers.—or sneer at the 
l black ones?— to reduce the speed of trotting 
l horses a second or two below its old minimum? 
, —to color meerschaums?—to flaunt in laces, and 
t sparkle in diamonds?—to dredge our maidens’ 
hair with gold-dust?—to float through life, the 
• passive shuttlecocks of fashion, from the avenues 
to tho beaches, and back again from the beaches 
I to the avenues? Was it for this that the broad 
s domain of the Western hemisphere was kept so 
i long unvisited by civilization ?—for this, that 
Time, the father of empires, unbound the virgin 
zone of this youngest ol his daughters, and gave 
her, beautiful in the long veil of her forests, to 
the rude embrace of the adventurous Colonist? 
All this is what we pee around us, now,— now, 
while we are actually fighting this great battle, 
and supporting this great load of indebtedness. 
Wait till the diamonds go back to the Jews of 
Amsterdam; till the plate-glass window bears 
the fatal announcement, For Sale or To Let; 
till the voice of our Miriam is obeyed, as she 
sings 
<( Weaic no more silks, ye Lyons looms!” 
Till the gold-dust is combed from the golden 
locks, and hoarded to buy bread; till the fast- 
driving youth smokes his clay-pipe on the plat¬ 
form ol' the horse-car; till the music- grinders 
cease because none will pay them; till there are 
no peaches in the windows at twenty-four dollars 
a dozen, and no heaps of bananas and pine¬ 
apples selling at the street-cornel's; till the ton- 
flounced dress has but three flounces, and it is 
felony to drink champagne; wait till these 
changes show themselves, the signs of deeper 
wants, the preludes of exhaustion and bank¬ 
ruptcy; then let us talk of the Maelstrom; but 
till then, let us not be cowards with our purses, 
while brave men are emptying their hearts upon 
the earth for us: let us not whine over our 
imaginary ruin, while the reversed current of 
circling events is carrying ns farther and farther, 
every hour, beyond the influence of the great 
failing which was born of our wealth, and of the 
deadly sin which was our fatal inheritance !—0. 
IF. Holmes. 
THE PRECIOUSNESS OF LITTLENESS. 
Everything is beautiful when it is little- 
little souls, little pigs, little lambs, little birds, 
little kittens, little children. Little martin- 
boxes of homes are generally the most happy 
and cozy; little villages are nearer to being 
atoms of a shattered Paradise than anything we 
know of; little fortunes bring the most content, 
and little hopes the least disappointment. Little 
words are the sweetest to hear: little charities fly 
farthest and slay longest on the wing: little lakes 
are the stillest, little hearts the fullest, and little 
farms the best tilled. Little books are the most 
read, and little songs the dearest loved. And 
when nature would make anything especially 
rare and beautiful, she makes it little—little 
pearls, little diamonds, little dews. Agur’s is 
a model prayer, but then it is a little prayer, and 
the burden of the petition is for little. The Ser¬ 
mon on the Mount is for little, but the last dedi- 
tion discourse was an hour. The Roman said:— 
Veni, Vidi, F<et—I came—saw—conquered; but 
dispatches now-a-days are longer than the battle* 
they tell of. Everybody calls that little they 
love best on earth. We once heard a good sort 
of a man speak of his little wife, and we fancied 
she must be a perfect bijou of a wife. We saw 
her; she weighed 210 pounds; we were sur¬ 
prised. But then it was no joke; the man meant 
it. He could put his wile in his heart, and have 
room for other things besides; and what was she 
but precious, and what could she be but little? 
We rather doubt the stories of great argosies of 
gold we sometimes hear of, because Nature deals 
in little, almost altogether. Life is made up of 
little; death is what remains of them all. Day 
is made up of little beams, and night is glorious 
with little stars. Multum in parro—much in 
little—is the great beauty of all that we love 
best, hope for most, and remember longest.— 
Chicago Journal 
-- 1 
What the Heart Requires.— But love de- ’ 
mands an object of infinite wortb, and dies of < 
very inexplicable and clearly-recognized fail- < 
tire; it projects out of all and above all, and 1 
requires a reciprocal love without limits, with- i 
out any selfishness, without division, without 1 
pause, without end. Such an object is, verily, the i 
divine being—not fleeting, sinful, changeable s 
man. Therefore must the heart sink into the ( 
giver himself of all love, into the fullness of good 
aud the beautiful, into the disinterested, unlimit¬ 
ed, and universal lover .—Jean Paul Richter. I 
OUR REST. 
“ Tin? suffer! nm of this present time are not worthy to be 
compared to the glory that shall be revealed to us.’ 
Mr feet are worn and weary with the march 
Over rough roads, and op the steep hill side; 
O, city of onr God, I fein would see 
Thy pastures green, where peaceful waters glide. 
My bands are weary, laboring, toiling on, 
Day after day, for perishable meat; 
O, city of our God, I fain would rest; 
I sigh to gain thy glorious mercy-seat. 
My garments, travel-worn, and stained with dust, 
Oft rent by briars and thorns that crowd my way, 
Would fain be made, O Lord, my righteousness, 
Spotless and white in heaven's unclouded ray. 
My eyes are weary looking at the sin, 
Impiety and scorn upon the earth; 
O, city of our God, wi thin thy walls, 
All, all are clothed upon with the new birth. 
My heart is weary of its own deep sin— 
Sinning, repenting, ginning still away; 
When shall my soul thy glorious presence feel, 
Aud find its guilt, dear Savior, washed away ? 
Patience, poor soul; the Savior’s feet were worn; 
The Savior's heart and bands were weary, too; 
His garments stained, and travel-worn, and old, 
His sacred e\es blinded with tears for you. 
Love thou the path of sorrow that he trod; 
Toil on, and wait In patience for thy rest; 
O, city of our God, we soon shall see 
Thy glorious walls, home of the loved and blest. 
MORNING AND EVENING PRAYER. 
May I take this occasion of speaking of the 
importance of this one solemn ordinance of 
religion, never to be forgotten wherever we are 
—morning and evening prayer? It is the best 
means of reminding ourselves of the presence 
of God. To place ourselves in His hands before 
we go forth on our journey, on our pleasure, ou 
our works; to commit ourselves again to Him 
before we retire to rest; this is the best security 
for keeping up our faith and trust in Him in 
whom we profess to believe, whom we all expect 
to meet after WO leave this world. It is also the 
best security for our leading a good and happy 
lile. * * » Wo Bha.Il find it thrice as 
difficult to fall into sin If we have prayed 
against it that very morning, or if we tbauk God 
for having kept it from us that very evening. It 
is the best means of gaining strength, and 
refreshment, and courage, and self-denial for 
the day. It is the best means of gaining con¬ 
tent, and tranquillity, and rest for the night; 
it brings us, as nothing else can bring us, into 
the presence of Him who is the source of all 
these things, and who gives them freely to those 
who truly and sincerely ask for them. We may 
“ask” for them without caring to have them; 
but that is not really “asking.” We may 
“ seek,” but without lifting up our little linger to 
get what we seek; but that is not really “ seek¬ 
ing.” We may “knock,” but so feebly and 
irresolutely, that no Bound can be heard within 
or without; that is not really to “knock.” But 
“ ask” distinctly and with understanding; “seek” 
earnestly and deliberately; “knock” eagerly and 
pertinaciously; and in some way or other, 
depend upon it. we shall be answered.— Stanley's 
Sermons in ihe East. 
BLESSED IS THAT SERVANT. 
A lady in a new portion of the country, after 
much labor, and passing through many difficul¬ 
ties und discouragements, succeeded in starting 
a little Sunday School. By her diligent effort it 
was kept alive, and it grew in strength and influ¬ 
ence. till out of it there sprang up a flourishing, 
prosperous church, to stand perhaps for ages, as 
a tree of life, sending far and wide through the 
community around moral healing from its leaves. 
This pious heart made a vase and filled it with 
water, placing it where the thirsty might drink. 
And when at length it shall be reckoned up, 
how much influence for good has flowed from 
these bumble efforts, a great multitude will rise 
up to call blessed, that self-denying, though 
humble co-worker with God. “Blessed is that 
servant whom his Lord, when He cometh shall 
find bo doing.”— Presbyterian. 
Power of God’s Presence— Consider what 
God is —in His nature love, possessed of joy, 
crowned with peace perpetual. Transfer all this 
into a human soul, into your soul, let them abide 
among the sensitive receptivities of’ your better 
nature, every faculty lovingly open to His influ¬ 
ence, and it shall be no wonder if you show forth 
His spirit, be a living epistle; no wonder if you 
be changed into His likeness, nay. His very 
image, and the blessed attributes of God become 
the blessing attributes of man. Stocks cannot 
bind those feelings, then; they fly abroad in song. 
Dungeons cannot darken them; they make that 
dungeon flame with light. Their genial warmth 
dwarfs fierce furnace heat to pleasant coolness. 
They joy in aagtd company when lions stand 
around. They are never more exultant and 
triumphant than when man’s last enemy, draw¬ 
ing near, cowers to see the indwelling presence 
aud power of Him who alone has conquered 
death .—Christian Advocate and Journal. 
dead. 
A sorrowful woman said to me, 
“ Come in and look at our child !” 
I saw an angel at shut of day, 
And it never spoke—it smiled. 
I think of it in the city ’s streets, 
I dream of it when I rest— 
The violet eyes, the waxen hands, 
And the one white rose ou the breast. 
T. B. Aldrich. 
Speaking through Tears. —An old writer 
has truthfully remarked that we may say what 
we please, if we speak through tears. Tender 
tones prevent severe truths from offending. 
Hence, when we are most tender at heart, our 
words are most powerful. Hence, one great 
reason why our words have so much more power 
during a revival than at other times. Our hearts 
are more tender then than they usually are—we 
feel more, and it is easy for the impenitent to see 
and feel that our hearts are interested in their 
behalf. They feel that our words are not mere 
lip-words, but heart-words. 
